Beautiful Disaster
by Mikus Proud
Summary: He was such a disaster. But she couldn't help but find him beautiful too.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is just a little short story I put together after having it bounce around in my head for months. It will be three chapters, about 5,000 words, and I will post each chapter as I get it cleaned up and ready.

This is, without a doubt, a song-fic, completely inspired by the song "Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson. I love her music, and when I heard this song for the first time after beginning my fanfiction writing journey, I thought it was perfect fit for Hermione and Sirius. I will not post lyrics in the chapters, but if you have never heard the song, I encourage you to look it up!

This fic has a very different feel from my other stories. Just to warn you.

Thank you, as always, to my friend and beta, Ms. K. Everdeen!

**Disclaimer:** I wish I could live in this world, but I unfortunately don't own any of it.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

He was standing in the window again. She could barely make out his outline in the dark, but his position was given away by the glow of the cigarette as he took a drag and the wafting smell of smoke through the crack in the window that reached her as she made her way up the steps.

Ginny hated that he smoked in the house. She tried to ban it, but when he outright refused to sit outside in the January cold, Harry had taken his side, saying that it was his house and he could do what he wanted. So, Ginny had conceded, ungracefully, and insisted he at least crack the window to protect the rest of the house's occupants' lungs. He had refused that as well, but he always did it anyway.

She could feel his eyes on her as she reached the landing. She always paused there to look at him before she entered the foyer, disappearing from his view. He was always in that window when she got home from work, and she could always feel him watching her.

She hung her cloak up and made her way down the hall to the stairs leading to the kitchen. She didn't bother to stop and look into the drawing room. The door was firmly closed, and he had taken the room over as his domain since his return. It wasn't an inviting place to enter, and she had no desire to tangle with him tonight.

* * *

His inexplicable return from beyond the Veil was months ago now. He had not handled the transition back into the world of the living well. Remus' death had hit him hard, and the realization that he had missed even more years had thrown him in a depression that went far deeper than when he had been in exile or under house arrest in Grimmauld during her fifth year.

She hadn't really noticed at first. She had been wading through the last volatile days of her doomed relationship with Ron when he had returned. She had only seen him once or twice at first and he seemed the same. Not normal, but no different than he had the last time she had seen him when she was sixteen.

It wasn't until her relationship had ended in a spectacular explosion of screaming and throwing hexes and just about anything she could get her hands on that she had actually really noticed him.

She had left her and Ron's shared flat that night in a fit of rage, Apparating directly to Grimmauld Place to unload on her unsuspecting best friend. That was when she had first seen him there. A dark shape in a dark room, with only the glow of a cigarette to demonstrate any life.

That first night she had stopped, startled out of her fuming thoughts. It had struck her as odd to see him there, and she had felt his eyes on her, even though she couldn't discern his facial features in the darkness.

After a few minutes of staring at his shape, she had moved to enter the house. The drawing room door had been firmly closed, so she had shaken him from her thoughts and called out for Harry, brain kick-starting again about her epic break-up with Ron.

* * *

Harry had insisted she move into Grimmauld following her break-up, at least until she got on her feet again. She probably could have insisted she stay in their shared flat instead of Ron, but the place had been his choice for where to live, and it had never quite suited her. She felt it was much better for her to move on.

She had thought Ginny would object to her moving in, but the newlywed witch had just thrown up her hands and said the more the merrier. She knew his constant black cloud was beginning to wear on Ginny, especially since Harry refused to even consider speaking with him about the situation. Harry's clear alliance with him over his young wife did not sit well with Ginny.

After over a week of not seeing more than his darkened silhouette in the window every evening coming home from work, she wondered if he even left that room. She assumed he must eat and sleep and use the restroom, but she saw no evidence of it.

Even though they had barely spoken since his return, and she knew very little of him before he had been lost, she felt an inexplicable connection with him every night she saw him standing there in the window. Though she couldn't see them, she knew his eyes were meeting hers in the darkness, and somehow she knew that was the closest human connection he had in his life. It made her sad to think of it.

She questioned Harry about it one Saturday morning at breakfast, two weeks after she had moved in. He had only shrugged, saying that he was processing his return the best way he knew how and that he would emerge from his self-imposed exile when he was ready. When she pushed further, Harry said he did sleep in his bedroom and sometimes had drinks in the kitchen with him. She was happy to hear that he at least left the drawing room occasionally.

* * *

She had awoken in the early morning hours, last vestiges of a nightmare clinging to her body as she shakily pushed her sweat soaked curls back from her face. She knew she would never fall back to sleep, so she wrapped her dressing gown around her and padded quietly down to the kitchen, her bare feet making very little noise on the old wooden floors.

He was there in the darkness, sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a tumbler of firewhisky. She let out a startled shriek when she lit the wall sconces, turning her wand on him before she realized who was there. She hadn't noticed his silhouette in the blackness of the room.

He squinted at her in the sudden brightness, bloodshot eyes burning into hers. He looked terrible. His hair was long and unkempt, snarled around his face. His beard was scraggly and greying. His face was gaunt and his eyes sunken into his cheeks. He looked more like the Azkaban escapee than he had the last time she had seen him in the light, months previous.

She apologized for intruding, though he had ignored her, lowering his eyes to his drink after a few intense moments of staring at her. She quickly went about making her tea, which she had thought to bring up to the library to settle in with a book until it was an appropriate time to begin getting ready for work. But she was second-guessing her decision. Now that she was here with him, the temptation to stay and attempt to draw him into the conversation was nearly irresistible.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she finished preparing her tea. She considered offering him some, but the way he was making love to his whisky, she didn't think he would appreciate it.

She made her decision, sliding into the chair across from him. She didn't ask for permission, and he didn't acknowledge her. She sipped at her tea, eyes moving over him in curiosity.

While he certainly didn't look healthy, there was something about him that struck her. Maybe it was just the part of her that reached out for the despondent man in front of her-the part that sparked to life when she saw him in the window every night. That connection she felt was ridiculous. They hadn't spoken, and he clearly didn't want to be disturbed. But she felt it nonetheless, even more so in the moment, sitting so close to him in the light of the kitchen.

She was startled when his eyes snapped up to hers, and she quickly lowered her gaze to her tea, embarrassed at being caught at her study of him. When she raised her eyes again, he was still looking at her intently.

Her stomach swooped at the intense gaze and her cheeks flushed. But she held his gaze steadily, determined to wait him out.

He had a strange kind of beauty to him, even though he wasn't exactly healthy looking. It was in the sharp angles of his face, in his jet colored waves, still untouched by the gray that sprinkled his beard. And it was in the sadness in his hooded, bloodshot eyes. She couldn't look away.

Abruptly he stood and stalked out of the room, door swinging closed behind him. He hadn't uttered a word to her the whole time, yet Hermione felt suddenly exhausted like they had had a heated argument. She watched the closed door for several minutes after his departure, trying to make sense of her swirling emotions.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Here is Chapter 2! There will be one more chapter posted, probably within the next week or two.

**Chapter 2****  
**  
After their kitchen encounter, she didn't see him in the window coming home from work for nearly a week. She knew he was in there, the closed door attested to that, but he didn't greet her in his usual way.

The knowledge that he was choosing to ignore her was jarring and left her feeling strangely bereft. She couldn't help but feel like he was punishing her for something, though she didn't understand what she had done. She didn't bother seeking him out or asking after him with Harry.

Then Friday evening, after a particularly trying day at the Ministry, she arrived home late, more than three hours after she usually got home and he was there.

She stopped in shock at the bottom of the steps, because not only was he there, smoking as per usual, he was back lit by the sconces she saw lighting the wall behind him.

He was looking at her and clearly had been waiting for her arrival. Her surprise was so completely she hadn't even stopped to think about it, she raised her hand in greeting. Not quite a wave, but a clear acknowledgement of his presence.

He didn't react at first, but after a few moments, he nodded to her, then moved away from the window into the room and out of her sight.

She was suddenly struck with the thought that perhaps he had been concerned for her. She had never been home this late since moving in, and after so many days of not greeting her, maybe he was wondering why she wasn't home yet and waited for her to make sure she was ok.

She tried to shake those thoughts from her mind, along with the accompanying feeling of warmth that settled into her stomach at the idea. She slowly ascended the steps and entered, making her way past the still closed drawing room door.

* * *

He was back to his nightly greeting in the window, though with the new addition of the light, the not quite wave, and the nod. He was there every night. She hated that she looked forward to his greeting, hated the ridiculous feelings growing within her-affection and even attraction. She never even spoke to him, and he was becoming the best part of her day. She hated how pathetic that made her.

But she knew from Harry that he was not communicating any more than before, and she felt that he was opening up to her in the best way he knew how. It was a heady feeling, knowing that he was communicating with her alone, even in such a simple matter.

She wished she could draw him out even more to speak with her. But she didn't want to spoil what they had built so far.

* * *

When he did finally speak to her, it was completely unexpected. Harry and Ginny had gone out for a date night one Saturday over a month after she moved in. She was eating dinner alone in the kitchen, a book spread out on the table next to her plate. She hadn't even heard the door swing open, and jumped in surprise when his deep voice, raspy from disuse, sounded from directly behind her.

He inquired if there was enough for him to eat too. She had nodded mutely, trying desperately to close her slack jawed mouth as he moved away to make up a plate for himself. But when he slid into the seat across from her and asked her what book she was reading, she couldn't help it when her mouth fell open again.

He was obviously uncomfortable. He was fidgety and kept mumbling, and he had clearly been drinking. But Hermione was just so happy to hear his voice, she was content to follow his lead.

He looked better than the last time she had seen him in the kitchen. His hair was combed back, and his eyes were less blood shot. He was still unhealthy looking, but at least he looked like he was trying a little more.

They made small talk as they ate, and she tried not to spook him lest he disappear on her again. He shoveled food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten for a month, then practically ran from the room when he was finished. But he had come. He had sought her out. He had spoken to her. And that meant something. Or so she hoped.

* * *

When Ginny hinted that perhaps it was time for her to look for her own place, she pleaded that she needed more time. Work was really stressful at the moment, and she couldn't face flat hunting and moving right now. Ginny backed off and didn't question her further. She didn't want to admit, even to herself, that he was the reason she didn't want to leave.

Less than two weeks after their dinner together, she saw him in the window, as per usual. What wasn't usual was the crack in the door to the drawing room. A clear invitation. Her heart swooped, but she was terrified to enter. She knew it wasn't an accident. If he didn't want her to come in, he would have closed it all the way. But still she hesitated. But then she shook her nerves away.

She didn't knock, just pushed the door open a little further. He was standing by the window still and didn't turn. But she knew he would have heard her, and he didn't stop her from entering, so she came fully in the room, leaving the door open behind her.

She sat on the sofa and waited for him to acknowledge her. He eventually turned and walked over to her, stopping at the sideboard to pour two measures of firewhisky, handing one to her before sitting down on the far end of the sofa from her.

She had never liked the drink, but took a sip anyway. She spluttered and coughed at the burning liquid, making him smirk. She suddenly felt flushed, which she knew had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with that dangerous little smile.

He didn't say anything, and she followed his lead. The silence felt far more comfortable than their stilted conversation had, so she settled back in against the sofa back and just enjoyed being in his presence.

When she had managed to get the rest of her drink down, she set it on the coffee table and stood. He looked up at her, as though surprised she was still there. She whispered her thanks and said goodnight. She closed the door as she left the room.

So they settled into their new routine. After that first night, she was offered a glass of wine, which made her inexplicably happy that he had made the effort on her behalf.

She always left the door open behind her and left as soon as she was done with her drink. They rarely spoke, but that felt right for them. She had no complaints.

* * *

The day he wasn't at the window and didn't crack the door really threw her. Nothing had happened the evening before to make her think he was upset with her. Their evenings had even progressed slightly to include some conversation. Real conversation too, not their stilted small talk in the kitchen over dinner. But he wasn't waiting for her, the room had been dark, and the door firmly closed again.

She didn't know what to do. She felt like leaving him to himself would be a mistake, but she also worried about his reaction should she intrude.

After standing outside the closed door for several minutes, she tried the door handle to find it unlocked. She reasoned that if he truly didn't want to be disturbed, he would have locked the door.

When she entered, he was sprawled on the sofa, mostly empty bottle of firewhisky on the floor beside him. He was out cold, mouth hanging open. He looked terrible, worse than she had seen him since the first night she met him. If she hadn't seen his chest rising and falling, she could almost believe he was dead.

She moved quietly into the room, picking up the bottle and vanishing the spilled drink she saw on the sofa and floor from when the glass that had fallen from his lifeless fingers. She picked up the glass as well, placing it on the coffee table next to the bottle.

She took the opportunity of him being asleep (or unconscious) to study him. He really was such a disaster. And yet she could feel herself falling for him. Such a fool she was to get wrapped up with such a man. Someone she knew would never be good for her, would never be able to provide her with the stability in a relationship she wanted. If he even was in the least bit interested in her. She could almost believe he was with the way he had opened up in his own way with her. But whatever connection she felt with him was dangerous.

Before she left, she summoned a bottle of hangover cure from her bathroom. She didn't often overindulge, but she always kept a bottle on hand, just in case. She left it there for him on the table.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Here is the final chapter of my little short story! Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed!

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The next evening, he was there at the window again, and the door was cracked. She entered as if nothing unusual had happened the evening before. But he had surprised her by murmuring his thanks for the potion and telling her that it had been Remus' birthday, and he hadn't handled it well.

She was shocked by his frankness. She didn't think he had ever spoken so many words to her in a row before. She tried to think of the right thing to say, but he didn't seem to expect a response, so she settled for listening and keeping him company.

Something shifted in her that night. She became very much aware that in the short couple months she had spent with him, she had fallen in love with him. Quite against her own wishes.

* * *

He came to her one night, a little over two weeks later. There was a knock on her bedroom door well after midnight. She hurried to open it, worried something was wrong.

He was drunk again. He reeked of firewhisky. She couldn't contain her shock when he leaned into her, burying his face in her shoulder, whispering to her. That no one but she understood him, no one but she cared.

Before she knew what was happening, his lips were on hers. Her logical brain told her to stop him-he was drunk, now wasn't the time. But her heart and body told her differently. She found her arms wrapped around his neck before her brain could win the argument.

He was rough with her, more so than she was used to. He gripped her hips to him tightly, and she knew she would likely have bruises. She had never thought she would have enjoyed that before, but in the moment, she was more excited than she had ever felt before.

His beard scraped against her skin, leaving it feeling tender and raw, his teeth nipped at her neck and lips, and she arched against him as his fingers dug into her skin.

He didn't say a word once they began, barely made any sound at all. She didn't notice at first, not until the end. The room was dark-he was no more than a shadow above her, but when she reached up to cup his cheek, she felt the tears there she had been too wrapped up in the moment to notice before.

He slipped away from her before she could utter a protest. She sat up, an invitation on her lips to stay with her, but he had already slid on his pants and was out the door.

The next night the drawing room was dark, and the door locked. So too was every night for the next week.

She began flat hunting ten days after the evening she spent with him.

* * *

Her new flat was tiny. It wasn't that she couldn't afford more on her Ministry salary, but she felt like if she got a larger flat all to herself, she would feel more alone.

She picked an up and coming muggle neighborhood, transitioning from an old industrial section of London. She liked the grit of the place, the imperfection. She felt like it fit her current life state.

She hated that she didn't feel quite right without him there. She hated that she missed him and worried about his state of mind. She hated that he had rejected her, and that she had felt destroyed by it.

She asked Harry about him. He said there had been no change. But of course, things had never changed in Harry's eyes. Only for her.

Weeks turned to months, and she almost succeeded in forgetting about him, at least during the day. But at night, alone in her tiny flat, she couldn't help but dwell on it, and still grieved her loss of him.

More than five months after their night together, he showed up at her door. It was nearing 10 at night, and she had been reading on the sofa when the knock came. It was so soft that she barely registered it, but her flat was so silent, even the quiet noise penetrated her brain.

Her shock at seeing him was complete. To her knowledge, he hadn't left Grimmauld since his first days after returning from the Veil.

She could smell the firewhisky on him mingled with cigarette smoke, his usual scent. But he didn't appear drunk. She just gaped at him, and he stared back, as if too surprised find himself at her door.

When she asked him in, he propelled himself forward lurchingly, almost bumping into her as he entered the living room.

She closed the door behind him and crossed her arms over her chest protectively. When he just looked around, she questioned his reason for coming.

He stuttered for a moment before shaking himself. He told her he missed her. That he was sorry for leaving her that night and ignoring her. That he cared about her.

She was shaking her head before he had finished. Before she could stop herself, she told him that it was too late. He had missed his chance with her. She couldn't handle his mood swings anymore.

She almost retracted her words as she watched his face close off again, but she didn't. As much as her heart reached out to him, her feelings for him singing with his words of contrition, her mind wouldn't let her forget the pain he had already caused her. She needed to protect herself.

He stood silently for a long time before asking what he could to change her mind.

That confused her. He had been such a disaster, so wrapped up in his own personal drama, she didn't expect him to ask her a question like that.

She sputtered a bit over her answer, but he didn't push. She said that she didn't know. He had hurt her and made her feel unwanted, why should she believe now that he wanted to make things work with her?

By the end of her rambling, she had stuttered out that he needed to prove himself to her. Prove that he was willing to change. Prove that he cared enough about her to stop shutting her out. Prove that he was able to take care of himself.

He didn't say a word after she stumbled to a halt. He stepped up to her, palm coming to rest against her cheek. Her breath sucked in in gasp at the contact. After several moments of his dark grey eyes studying her face, he leaned in and kissed her cheek lightly.

She watched him turn and walk out the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Months went by with no word. She tried very hard to put him from her mind. She had demanded too much from him, she knew. He was such a mess, and to ask him to completely change everything about his life was more than anyone could probably handle.

She just didn't want to be dragged down to his level. He didn't mean to bring her down, she knew. He felt badly about hurting her the way he did, she could tell that from their last meeting. But she had to move on. Had to learn to live without him.

* * *

Christmas at the Burrow was something she always looked forward to. She had been grateful for the invitation, worried that her break-up with Ron had soured her relationship with his parents. But they didn't seem to care that she was no longer dating Ron.

She didn't expect to see him, knew that the crowded home would probably be the last place he would visit, but she couldn't help but be hopeful. Even if she didn't speak to him, she just wanted to see him, to assure herself that he was ok. Because no matter how much she may try to tell herself not to care, she couldn't stop herself.

The Burrow was filled to the brim with people, and new people coming all the time. A lot of Weasley red was milling about the house, members of the old Order, and friends of the various Weasley family members. She loved the hustle and bustle and catching up with people she didn't often get to see.

He wasn't there. She hadn't been surprised when Harry and Ginny showed up without him, though she had asked after his whereabouts. Harry had given her the oddest look. He stared at her in what almost looked like shock before his lips quirked into a smile, and he had laughed. He told her maybe he would show up later. The whole exchange had left her feeling wrong footed and confused.

As the evening wore on, less people trickled in and more started taking there leave. She tried to forget about him, knowing that the hope Harry's words had sparked in her that he may actually show up was futile.

She was about ready to leave when she saw him. At first, when she caught sight of black hair in the crowd, she had thought it was Harry. That is until she realized Harry was sitting on the sofa behind her. She spun back around to look again, and there, through a cluster of people putting on their cloaks by the back door, he stood.

He had obviously just arrived, and he had a faded black leather jacket flung over his arm as he waited for the crowd to clear. He didn't see her at first and was watching the people bustle about the back door with a slightly bemused expression.

She was completely bowled over. He was there! And he looked so different than the last time she has seen him. He looked...healthy. He had filled out, the gaunt look gone from his face. His hair and beard were trimmed and clean, hair neatly swept back from his face. His eyes were bright and clearly unclouded by the influence of the alcohol that had become such a crutch for him. He wore muggle clothes, a black sweater and grey pants.

She couldn't move. She felt completely frozen, and suddenly the group was gone from the kitchen and he was standing in front of her.

She stared up at him, eyes suddenly full of tears. He smiled in a tender way and raised up his hand to brush a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

His grey eyes were studying her, watching closely for her reaction. She laughed suddenly, unable to contain her joy.

"You're here," Hermione whispered, voice choked, as she raised her hand tentatively. When he didn't pull away, she let her palm cup his cheek.

"I always will be," Sirius replied, before leaning down to kiss her lips.

He was such a beautiful disaster. But he was hers. And she never intended on letting him go.


End file.
